The Road Ends Where Another Starts
It was 3:30 in the morning, the temperature was low and the wind was howling. This was an unusually early wake-up time, even for me. The reason for me crawling from the comfort of my tent at such an ungodly hour was simple: I had decided that it would be my last day of riding. Ahead of me were 92 miles and somewhere around 6,000 feet of elevation gain. I knew that the wind would remain fierce until around noon, especially while transiting the narrow mountain pass ahead of me before my bombing descent back down to sea level. I was afraid that if I started any later, I would have to ride deep into the night, and I was ready for my trip to be over.
After packing up my makeshift campsite that evening, hidden a few hundred yards from Interstate 8 behind a large boulder, I hopped on my bike with the gusto you would expect from someone who had just ridden 3,000 miles over the previous few months. My muscles were so stiff that I could barely get my leg over the seat. Unbeknownst to me, my rear tire had gone flat overnight, causing me to nearly fall off to one side as there was no traction when I pedaled. I dismounted and yelled profanities into the night sky while waving my fist at my metallic steed. I wasn’t all that angry because I knew that this was likely my last setback for the trip. But why would I pass up an opportunity to scream curses into the void? After patching my tire, I re-mounted my bike and began pedaling once more. The desert must have taken notice of my unusually good mood in such rough circumstances because I made it no more than two minutes before running over a sharp object in the road. My ears were forced to listen to the dreaded hissing noise of a punctured innertube one last time. Now, I was pissed.
By 2:00 PM, I had summited my last mountain for the trip. From that point forward, it was quite literally all downhill as I rifled toward the coast below only 40 miles in the distance. I had to control my speed carefully because it had been downpouring all afternoon and would continue to rain into the night. The roads were slick and my brake pads were worn to nearly bare metal. At this point, there was no way that I was going to let a little water stop me from reaching my goal. I could smell the salt in the air and almost taste it too. For one last time, I was blown away by the rapid change in the landscape. That morning, I had been riding through an arid desert several thousand feet above sea level. Now, as I approached the ocean, the bleak colors and muted tones were shifting into beautiful shades of green as the trees and plants showed signs of life that I had not experienced since East Texas. The roads quickly became overcrowded with the typical traffic you would expect in Southern California. Soon, I found myself surrounded by cars and plagued by traffic lights. Not even blaring car horns, the smell of exhaust fumes, and unfriendly drivers were going to dampen my mood.
Then, as quickly as my trip started, it ended. After riding along the San Diego River for several miles, it eventually led me to lifeguard tower 5 as seen in the photo above. The sand was soft and powdery, and I struggled to drag my bike through it with the added weight of my gear. So, I propped it up against the tower and then walked the short distance remaining to the edge of the ocean. The feeling I had was an indescribable one. The bittersweet internal conflict was more than I anticipated. On one hand, I was relieved to be done. I could finally catch my breath and rest after thousands of miles of riding, constant setbacks, and a near-continuous battle with Mother Nature. Yet, for some reason, I found myself yearning to keep going and a bit saddened by the thought that my adventure was over. I stood there with my toes in the frigid water for a long time as I stared into the eternal darkness beneath the rippling surface of the ocean. The numbness in my feet shook me from my trancelike state of deep internal reflection, and I made my way from the water and back to my bike. I still needed to find a place to stay for the night.
The following morning I gathered my things, called an Uber to take me to the airport, and gave my bike away to a stranger whom I would never see again. That always stuns people when I tell them. I often get asked why I didn’t take it home. The truth is, that bike didn’t owe me anything. I purchased it with the intention of riding it across the country, and I had done just that. Besides, I know myself. If I brought it home, it would have just collected dust with all my other dumb ideas. The joy on the stranger’s face when I handed over my bike told me that it is likely still being ridden today. That makes it worth it to me.
I spent the first few minutes of my flight staring out the window. I could actually identify the different roads that I had taken over the last few days of my trip. It was a strange thing to witness from above, as I was able to get a visual representation of the great distances that I had covered. Soon we were above the clouds, and my sight of the ground below was obscured. After closing the window blind, my eyes slammed shut and I fell into a deep sleep. I didn’t wake again until I was jostled somewhat violently by the landing several hours later. In a single plane ride, all of my hard work over the previous fifty days had been reset. It seems a bit pointless, doesn’t it? Although I was geographically brought back to the start of my journey, I had undergone a great change. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, I was something new entirely. I had just ridden my bike across the country, and all I could think about was what comes next.
